


still me that makes you sweat

by wastrelwoods



Series: Meg Does Kinktober! [3]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Cruising, Kinktober 2020, Other, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, embedded art, i think it counts as roleplay at least, sometimes you hookup with your boyfriend in a sauna and thats fine, the inherent homoeroticism of tailing your master thief partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/wastrelwoods
Summary: If Vespa were here, she would point out that Juno’s got a stakeout to get back to, but his gut tells him whatever Nureyev’s scheming at is a thousand times more interesting.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: Meg Does Kinktober! [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947802
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	still me that makes you sweat

**Author's Note:**

> god i love to just take a prompt and color outside the lines. i keep DOING this. also i am out here in the year of our lord 2020 taking stylistic inspiration from Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off (2005) and i can't help that either!! 
> 
> in case you're not familiar with cruising, there's less clear and explicit verbal consent than i might usually include, but i wouldn't necessarily call it dubious consent bc of that context
> 
> EDIT 1/2021: amy made some spicy art for this and the lingerie fic in this series!!!! very grateful to him for that and i've embedded it at the end here!! find them @amythyst_art

Juno’s sitting at a cafe, bored out of his skull, in the middle of a debrief that’s quickly devolving into a full-blown lecture, when he catches a glimpse of Nureyev for the first time in a long, tedious week. 

“Steel? Focus, please, I can _feel_ you tuning me out, asshole,” Vespa’s voice echoes through his burner comms, tinny and flat with thinly-veiled frustration. 

“Mmhmm,” Juno answers, but all his attention is pulled to Nureyev’s familiar silhouette, his long legs in the sharp-cut suit he’s donned to play his latest alias, the faintest whisper of his familiar cologne on the air. He’s walking down a street on the other side of the plaza, a hundred feet away, and even if Juno were to give in to the impulse to run up and throw his arms around him, he wouldn’t get a damn thing for his trouble. Nureyev’s a consummate professional, too deep in this con to break character just because he’s getting a little bored and lonely, and pharmaceutical investor Rufus King has never met Juno Steel in his life. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye on that.” 

“Jesus,” Vespa groans. “Okay, great, he’s not even listening to me. Perfect. You hear this, Buddy?” There’s a faint echo of a laugh on the other end of the line, before Vespa snaps, “ _Steel_ ,” with enough venom in her tone to make Juno jump in his seat. 

“Sorry,” he grumbles, and forces himself to turn back to his cold drink and half-eaten sandwich and stop mooning over his partner in crime while he’s supposed to be on the job. “Goddamn stakeouts drive me cr...uh. Up a wall. I’ll pound some caffeine or something, get my focus back. Maybe I’ll have some actual news to report next time I check in.” 

“And Ransom?” Vespa says, low and accusing, pinpointing the root of the problem with her uncanny assassin intuition. “You staying away from him? Or are you two lovebirds gonna blow our cover because you can’t keep your hands off each other for a goddamn week?” 

Juno glances up and across the square to the place where Nureyev is happily chatting away with one of the marks, a vapid smile on his face and a gold watch on his wrist. Bright eyes flicker over the pharma executive’s shoulder for a fraction of an instant, and lock onto Juno in turn. He clears his throat. “Give us a break,” he bluffs, heat crawling over the back of his neck. “I can keep my distance, Vee. I know how a damn alias works.” 

“Hmm,” Vespa says, skeptically, and hangs up on him. Juno sits there like an idiot with the comms still in his hand, because Nureyev has gone from amiable conversation to the bowing and scraping of a clear farewell, waving a simpering adieu to the trillionaire they’re going to rob in two days time, and Juno can’t work out why he’s making his goodbyes so far ahead of schedule. Then, those bright eyes flicker back his way a second time, and Nureyev grins a real grin, quick and sharp, his facade dropping. He steps backward, and turns pointedly down the next corner, like he’s challenging Juno to follow.

Juno’s eye narrows. “What the hell are you playing at,” he murmurs, with nobody in particular around to hear, and takes the bait. 

Nureyev bobs and meanders down side streets with King’s long, lackadaisical strides, always keeping just enough distance to nearly vanish into the crowd but never disappearing completely. Juno follows from as far back as he can, tries to look like more a lady with an appointment to keep, and less like he’s obviously giving chase, but he probably doesn’t manage the cover quite as smoothly. Subterfuge was never really his thing. 

If Vespa were here, she would point out that Juno’s got a stakeout to get back to, but his gut tells him whatever Nureyev’s scheming at is a thousand times more interesting. Probably his gut, anyway, there’s definitely several other organs he could be accused of allowing to interfere with his decision-making. 

Just when he looks up and realizes he’s gotten himself well and truly turned around, he spots Nureyev again, lingering in a doorway like he’s got nothing better to do than sit on the stoop and contemplate whether to duck inside. And then, with a nonchalant glance over one shoulder, he does. 

Juno’s got enough good sense to circle the block once again before running in after him, barely. Probably the first time his good sense has come head to head with curiosity and ended up on top. He cranes his head to peer at the exterior. Some upscale hotel, with one of those hovering chandeliers in the lobby. The door Nureyev took was around the side, in an adjoining wing. There’s a plaque on the side demarcating it for “members only”. Juno glances down at his scuffed shoes, and determines to hope for the best. 

There’s no sign of Nureyev left in the lobby, empty of everything but polished sim-wood and gold trim and a desk with a single attendant who looks Juno over with some suspicion. Juno casts his eye around the room in search of a conclusion to jump to, and lights on a pile of white towels, neatly folded.

The attendant raises an eyebrow. “Would you like a private steam room, madam?” 

Juno clears his throat, and tries not to look like an idiot who wandered into a ritzy bathhouse without knowing about it in advance, which is hard because that’s exactly what he is in point of fact. “I, uh. Just a locker.” 

After paying up and dressing down, he wanders the twisting back hallways in a daze, stomach churning with anticipation, rounding every corner with the expectation that Nureyev will be waiting on the other side wearing a matching towel and a sharp smile. The temperature rises steadily, until sweat is prickling on the back of his neck, and he can feel his heart in his throat. 

The door to the sauna slides open with a billow of steam that obscures every form down to a misty shadow. Anonymity is part of the draw of places like this, Juno understands, for the same reason Valles Vicky’s dancers don’t tend to give out their real names. It’s nice, sometimes, to have all the fun of a good fuck with none of the strings attached. The problem is that there’s at least a dozen people in this room, and any of them could be Nureyev. Or none. 

Juno swallows thickly, and peers through the mist. There’s a pair in one corner already tangled up together, hands fumbling under towels heedless of the eyes on them, quiet moans muffled under the hissing steam. A woman with a cocky grin who meets Juno’s eye, and lets her gaze rake travel over him head to toe, raising an eyebrow. Juno looks away quickly, and shakes his head. 

“Goddamnit, you slippery bastard,” he murmurs, taking another step into the clouds of steam, “Where the hell are you?” 

The hand on his waist catches him by surprise, and the soft brush of lips over the nape of his neck. Juno freezes, trying to decide whether to flinch or flee or swing a punch, when he hears a familiar voice lilt, low in his ear, “Looking for a little company?” 

Juno lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, sinks back into the arms wrapping around him. “Nureyev,” he sighs, under his breath.

“I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else,” the man behind him says, with a low chuckle that crosses wires in Juno’s head. Nimble fingers dance over the jut of his hip, tease at the towel draped around his waist. “I’ve been told I have one of those faces.”

His face, when Juno turns, is unmistakably Peter Nureyev’s face, his lips the same silk-soft against Juno’s mouth. But he presses Juno back against the wall and kisses him hungrily, every bit like the first time. Juno gasps, and presses his palms to the sweat-slick arch of his spine. All week long of this stupid, lonely mission, the tension and frustration and restlessness have been stretching and stretching at his threadbare self-control, and right about the minute he feels a daring whisper of a touch slip under the towel to brush across the inside of his thigh is when it snaps completely. 

“Take me somewhere a little more private,” he rasps, “And I’ll call you anything you want.” 

The man masquerading under Nureyev’s face quirks a grin that’s unlike any Juno’s ever seen, and Juno feels like he could melt into the steam. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Rufus King has never met Juno Steel in his life. Hasn’t even introduced himself, technically, but goddamn if Juno isn’t gonna get to know him one way or another. 

He half expected one of the cushy personal steam rooms with a door that locks, and what he gets is a hurried shove into a shower stall, one hand over his mouth and the other unwinding the towel from his waist, baring him to the spray and the familiar stranger’s voracious gaze. No way to treat a lady. Juno’s so turned on he could scream. 

Water beats down against his bare back, and Nureyev wastes no time in dropping to his knees and wrapping his lips around the head of Juno’s dick, pinning his hips down and blowing him like he’s been gagging for it all day. Juno lets his head fall back against the wall, and chokes out a harsh groan that echoes loud enough to hear over the shower spray. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he says, “Holy shit, goddamn--”

Nureyev makes some move with his tongue that knowing his track record is probably against _some_ kind of law, taking Juno deeper until he can feel himself hit the back of his throat. His mouth is hot and wet and tight when he swallows around him, and Juno can’t remember if he was always this good at sucking dick and he was stupid enough to forget, or if Nureyev’s been holding out on him, somehow. He shoves two knuckles into his mouth to muffle himself, because there’s hooking up in a business that’s designed to accommodate frequent and enthusiastic public sex and then there’s just being inconsiderate. Nureyev doesn’t seem inclined to extend the same courtesy, palming at Juno’s ass and heedlessly making a slick, dripping mess of himself. 

Juno manages a single look down at his face, the makeup running down his cheeks from the shower or the messy blowjob or both, glancing back with a playful spark in his half-lidded eyes, and almost sends himself over the edge a lot goddamn sooner than he’d planned. He buries his free hand in Nureyev’s hair, tugs, and then tugs more sharpy when all the first attempt gets him is a delighted moan. 

The image alone is well worth the extended and colorful chewing out he’ll get if a single word of this ridiculous liaison gets back to the ship. Nureyev’s usually so elegant and poised, taking Juno apart with careful precision and scarcely a hair out of place. It’s hot, fucking this version of him that doesn’t mind it quick and dirty and strictly off the record. _Delightfully novel_ is the kind of phrase he’d use, probably, if he wasn’t so busy choking himself on Juno’s cock. 

“Fuck, hey, hey, wait--” Juno groans, when he can’t hold it back a second longer.

Finally, Nureyev lets him go, backing away with a slick pop and a disheveled grin. “Not giving up on me already, are you?” he goads, in a slightly hoarse voice. Water flats his dark hair to his face, drips off his chin in rivulets and down his heaving chest. 

“Just want to come on your face,” Juno admits, taking himself in hand and shivering at Nureyev’s pleased expression. 

“Go on, then,” he murmurs, watching Juno sloppily fuck his own fist for a moment and then leaning forward to join him, teasing at the head with his lips, his tongue. Juno only half succeeds in muffling the groan that’s shocked out of him as he makes a bigger mess of Nureyev’s face than before, gasping lungfuls of hot steam. 

“Goddamn,” he rasps, breathlessly. “Holy shit.”

Nureyev’s brushes two fingers over his cheek and sucks them into his mouth with a smirk, still dripping wet. Juno swallows hard. “Get up here,” he says with a tilt of his head. “Don’t let me have all the fun.” 

Nureyev gives him that same unfamiliar chuckle, the one that makes him half forget he knows the man who’s pressing him back against the tile and sucking a dark bruise onto the side of his throat. Juno’s fingers slip between his legs to feel him slick and hot and hard, and then slide in small, slow circles over his dick. The mouth against his throat opens into a ragged gasp, and Nureyev tilts his hips into Juno’s hand, eagerly, like he’s close just from getting Juno off. 

Juno drags it out as long as he can, the water beating down over their shoulders, Nureyev moaning soft and throaty in his ear, shuddering with every touch of Juno’s fingers and almost shaking apart when they slip inside him, two and then three at a time. Juno crooks them until he finds the right angle to turn those soft noises harsh and desperate, and gasps when Nureyev responds by biting at his shoulder and dragging his nails down Juno’s back in a way he knows from experience will leave a mark. When he comes, he comes clenching hard around Juno’s fingers, clinging to him and letting out a hoarse, breathless sound, and Juno has to bite down on his tongue to keep from groaning out his name. 

Too soon, Nureyev untangles himself from Juno, reaching out to twist the knob on the shower, bending to retrieve their discarded towels. Quick and dirty and anonymous means they can’t linger, and Juno knows it in the same way he knows he can’t resist tugging his partner back for one more kiss, pressing him back against the wall and wiping a little of the smudged makeup from his cheek. Nureyev smiles at him, already affixing his distant, professional veneer, and leans in close. 

“I’ll see you again soon, Juno,” he whispers, and disappears.


End file.
